


Burning, Breathing, Wanting

by daphnerunning



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Cousin Incest, Daddy Issues, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:26:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28170879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning
Summary: Maitimo forces himself to excel, forces his brothers to listen, forces obedience to his father's crusades. The only thing he never has to force is his smile when Findekáno is around.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 9
Kudos: 34
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nuredhel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuredhel/gifts).



> Written for Tolkien Secret Santa 2020, for @nuredhel on Tumblr. I hope you enjoy!

The first time Maitimo knew what it was to burn, he was in the water.

It was a game. Only a game. His brothers were far wilder in their games, often pouncing on each other from high places, letting the full weight of their bodies drop like stones. They tussled fiercely, laughing and sparring and wrestling, seeing how far they could go. Maitimo rarely began the rough play, but was known to end it firmly--and thus, they rarely invited him anymore. Macalaurë was large enough not to be hurt, but easy to bully, and made far better prey for the youngest two.

Maitimo learned early that he was too large, too strong, to play like that with his brothers for any reason but to teach them a lesson. So he confined himself, seeking other pursuits, bending himself to his studies. There was much to study. He learned statesmanship at his grandfather’s heel, the shaping of beautiful things at his mother’s, letters and metalwork at his father’s. He heard his mother and grandfather praise him, and tried to remember that his father had been at his craft far longer than he.

He tried to remember that he was young, as the Eldar measured it. His father often looked disappointed, but told him he would find something that made him burn, as Fëanáro burned, and would truly know himself upon that day.

When the elder of his cousins invited him to one of their games, it was a relief to see that they did not play so roughly as his own brothers. His protestations-- _I’m much larger, I might hurt you, I know not the rules, I must study--_ fell upon deaf ears, and he submitted himself to being hauled to a pool at the edge of the Pastures of Yavanna, as Findaráto called up a song of laughter and light, and Findekáno took it up. Maitimo hesitated to join; Macalaurë had a voice none but the Valar could equal, and Maitimo did not often sing at home, knowing how pale he sounded in comparison.

His uncle’s sons were not quite so hardy, or not quite so fierce, as his own brothers. They were younger, and kinder, though no less cheerful. Macalaurë liked them too, though at times Findaráto made him angry, made him argue, _not all songs are meant to be of the light, surely you must wish to bring your audience to tears sometimes._

But Findekáno...

Findekáno was Maitimo’s favorite.

He was quick, to laughter or to daring, clever with his voice, always eager for a challenge. He was a chief architect in their games, setting complicated rules and breaking them with abandon, admitting shamelessly that the only reason Arafinwë and Ñolofinwë allowed them to come was because Maitimo was with them, and he could be trusted to keep them out of trouble.

“Is that why you always invite me?” Maitimo asked, one auburn eyebrow raised. He’d wondered. Macalaurë was closer to them, in age and temperament, but they always invited him out, whether to swim or hunt or play singing games in the woods, despite that he never quite kept up with some games and handily won all the others without trying.

Findekáno gave him a strange look, and took his hand. “No,” he said, then briskly knocked Maitimo off a large rock and into the pond, letting out a gleeful whoop as he followed.

They came up, sputtering for air, Findekáno’s eyes dancing as he laughed. He’d lost his tunic at some point, and was bare and glistening in Laurelin’s golden light.

Maitimo found himself suddenly unable to breathe in.

His blood felt as if it was moving wrong, too hot and in strange directions. He felt oddly helpless, like he did when confronted with some small adorable animal but unable to find any outlet to deal with it, the odd thought that he might squeeze too hard, just because he couldn’t think what else to do to make the overwhelming feeling go away.

Findekáno appeared to be suffering no such handicap. He promptly ran out of the deepest part of the pool, splashing the whole way, to grab Findaráto, both of them laughing and pushing and shoving, until Findekáno grabbed his cousin and physically hurled him into the waves. Maitimo wished suddenly that he were not so tall, that Findekáno could lift him as easily, and he might know what it felt like to be held in those strong arms.

“Maitimo!” Findekáno called, and Maitimo painted a false smile on his face, forcing his lungs to work.

The strange feelings would pass, if he ignored them.


	2. Chapter 2

“Nelyo. You’re not focused.”

Maitimo’s eyes snapped up to his father’s, guilt suffusing his face. “Sorry. I’ll do better.”

Fëanáro looked up to follow the direction of his gaze, and Maitimo schooled his face to careful neutrality, as his father’s expression turned sour. “Ah. Ñolvo.”

Ñolofinwë nodded to his half-brother as he entered the palace courtyard, where Fëanáro and Maitimo were taking measurements for a new inscription to be wrought in sapphire, setting the great fountains alight at the mingling of every Light. Findekáno and his brother were trailing behind, all in their finest court robes. Maitimo felt his gaze drawn as soon as they entered, tracing over inky black hair, high cheekbones, a stubborn jaw, long-lashed eyes, a generous curve of lip, the way Findekáno’s robes were parted _just so_.

“Fëanáro,” Ñolofinwë said, nodding to his elder brother, and drew up, as if they would have speech.

Maitimo’s heart thudded. No, it would not do to have speech with Findekáno here, when his father was present. He knew his own tongue to be treacherous when his cousin was around, clumsy and unreliable.

“Hi, Maitimo,” Findekáno said cheerfully, apparently unconcerned with the tension around their fathers.

Maitimo jerked his head. “Hello, Findekáno.”

“Want to go--“

“I’m working.” If he didn’t meet Findekáno’s eyes, maybe his cousin would understand.

There was no response, but the sound of soft boots moving away.

His father’s hand was strong on his shoulder, a soft squeeze of approval that made Maitimo feel sick. Approval, for being short with the cousin he enjoyed spending time with above all his brothers, above all others.

“Now, focus, Nelyo. They don’t even speak correctly. No need to even pay attention to them.”

Might as well tell his heart to stop beating.

He considered trying that.


	3. Chapter 3

Findekáno leaned out of his tree at an impossible angle, his ankles hooked onto a branch, and set the Fool’s Crown onto Maitimo’s head before lunging upwards into the greenery. “It’s your turn!” he called, and pulled his harp free, strumming a chord that somehow managed to be insulting.

They had been at their games for hours. Findekáno was long past his majority now, they both were, but the essence of youth and laughter clung to him, making the light dance in even his skin, as if he were ephemeral. Of course, he was anything but, a solid and cheerful presence that kept Maitimo firmly grounded. He was kind, but quick-witted, and Maitimo thought even Fëanáro did not mind this particular Ñolofinwian so much.

Maitimo scrambled up the tree, making full use of his height to scale the branches, and heard Findekáno cheerfully curse when he realized he was truly caught. Maitimo lunged forward, catching his cousin by the wrist, and grinned.

Heat thrummed through him. He could feel Findekáno’s pulse against his fingertips, light and fast, a swift drumbeat that made him lean into the rhythm. They were balanced precariously, standing on a slender bough, but they were both surefooted, and neither had a fear of heights.

“Maitimo,” Findekáno said, and his voice was different when they were touching, as if Maitimo could feel it through his skin, feel it where they were joined.

“Finno...”

Findekáno leaned up--not so far as he had to before, when Maitimo didn’t know what burned inside him; he knew now, he _burned_ \--and met his eyes, challenging. “You caught me. It’s my turn to chase you, is it not?”

Maitimo’s mouth was dry. He nodded, and took the wreath from his head, settling it on Findekáno’s thick black braids. He made to drop his cousin’s hand, but Findekáno reversed their grips, catching his wrist. “You can hide as well as you like,” Findekáno said softly, unblinking. “But when I catch you, Maitimo...”

Maitimo felt struck dumb. Findekáno quivered with tension, something eager and bright inside of him, and Maitimo felt the world shift around them. He was a High Prince, skilled and learned and careful with words and deeds, and was known for his clear-headed decision making and sound advice in the council rooms of Tirion.

He did not feel clear-headed now.

He looked down at Findekáno’s hand around his wrist, and switched their grips again, twining their fingers together, and heard Findekáno suck in a sharp breath. “I think you caught me already,” he said softly.

“Ah. So I did.” Findekáno took a step towards him, until Maitimo could smell the sweet herbs he’d used to wash his hair earlier. “But I don’t want the crown.”

“No?”

Findekáno looked up at him, unafraid. “I want a kiss, Maitimo.”

Maitimo’s breath hitched. He leaned forward.

Jeering laughter broke out from below, and Maitimo jerked back. He nearly lost his balance, but Findekáno’s hand was steady on his. Findekáno was blushing, but his balance didn’t waver. “You didn’t want to play!” he called down, and snapped off a branch, hurling it at Maitimo’s brothers below. “So leave us be!”

Maitimo gave him a rueful smile, but the mood was gone. Gently, he pulled his hand out of Findekáno’s, and swung down from the tree, turning on Turco and Curvo with fire in his eyes. “Dear sweet brothers of mine,” he sing-songed, and rolled up his sleeves. “I think it’s been too long since someone reminded you who’s oldest here!”

It was their way, after all. He grabbed them by the arms, and they called him _cousin-fucker_ , and he bloodied their noses, and they kicked at his shins, and he called them _feral brats_ , and finally hauled them back home, where they all cleaned up and no one said a word to their parents.


	4. Chapter 4

Maitimo lay in his bed that night, staring out at the silver glow of Telperion. He touched his hand to his face, then his lips, imagining the warmth of Findekáno’s hand still lingered there.

Imagining his lips, full and generous, always quick with a laugh or a song.

He shifted, staring out through a gap in his curtains across the great courtyard, to where he knew Findekáno’s rooms were. He could go now. Maitimo imagined himself dressing, and padding over to the other side of the palace, and slipping inside--his uncle liked him, it would be a matter of little difficulty--and telling Findekáno, “I forgot to give you something earlier, my fair cousin.”

“What do you mean?” Findekáno would ask, guileless.

“Your prize from the game,” Maitimo might say, and lean down to kiss Findekáno’s unresisting lips.

A light winked from outside.

Maitimo shifted, staring out the window, and saw it flash again. A candle, and a mirror, angled directly at his window.

_Perhaps I’m not the only one lying in bed thinking of my cousin._

Dare he?

His knuckles were still raw from the thrashing he’d given his brothers earlier. Perhaps he could say he was leaving for some salve.

Mouth dry, he fetched a tiny brass mirror and a candle, and flashed the signal back. They had done so, many years earlier, when the grand palace was completed, and Ñolofinwë’s family had first moved in, a temporary arrangement while their own great house was being completed. Back when Fëanáro rarely stayed at the palace with his sons, before he felt the need to do it to remind everyone who Finwë’s firstborn was. Back then, Findekáno often wished to hear just one more story, or tell him about just one more adventure, so much sweeter and more earnest than his own little brothers, unable to bear the thought of being parted until morning.

But now he was grown. And Maitimo was far past grown. He was certainly too far grown to want to sneak out and see Findekáno without fantasizing about pulling him into an alcove, kissing him until they were both breathless.

 _Yes_ , he flashed back. Just that. The light stopped. Findekáno would know he was coming.

He dressed as quietly as he could, relying on what of Telperion’s light filtered in through the window with the curtain shut. He grabbed a robe, of some indeterminate color, and tugged slippers onto his feet, hastily raking his fingers back through unbraided hair. Well, Findekáno had seen him disheveled before.

Excitement thrummed through him. He thought of kissing again, and felt his nipples stiffen against his robes, though why that should be he had no idea. He crept out through his chambers, moving as silently as possible, making for the large door.

“Nelyo,” his father said, as if he had been waiting for just such an appearance.

Maitimo froze. He swallowed, and turned.

His father was leaning on the door frame, wiping ink from his fingers. Bad timing, then. His father had been up late working, and happened to see him. He raised a dark eyebrow now. “Up so late? Where are you going?”

“...Salve for my hand,” Maitimo said, and swallowed.

Fëanáro looked unconcerned about his hand. Of course, he never injured himself. “All right. And, while you’re out, deliver this message for me.”

He handed over a scroll, and Maitimo took it, surprised. His father had plenty of servants to do his runner work for him. He saw the name-- _Ataliel_ \--and knew the _nís_ for a prince’s daughter, who had often visited the forge at Formenos with her brother, one of his father’s many students. A queer sense of misgiving ran through him, as he tried to imagine what reason his father could have for sending a message to a young noble lady so late. “Yes, Atar,” he said instead of asking.

“Do you know her?”

Maitimo blinked. “I know of her, of course.” Why had this happened? He wanted to _go_ , wanted to run out and meet Findekáno and maybe run barefoot through the grass under the stars with him, until they laughed and collapsed together as they had when nothing was quite so complicated.

His father seemed unwilling to relinquish him just yet. “What do you think of her?”

Taken off-guard, Maitimo frowned, considering. “She is...well-mannered, and high-spirited. She speaks intelligently and dances well. I have not heard her sing, but I have seen her run in the Games, and she was very fast.”

Fëanáro gave him an almost pitying look. “Stay and talk to her when you give her that, then. See if you might make it a match.”

Maitimo’s heart stopped beating. “A...”

“A match.” One powerful shoulder shrugged. “I can’t have you running around in trees with Ñolvo’s son forever, Nelyo. I expect more from you.”

Maitimo heard iron bars close slowly around him, though he still stood in the warmly-lit parlor. He fumbled for something to say, and found no words, nothing but shadows. “I...will deliver it,” he said numbly.

“Then come right back.” Fëanáro’s eyes were sharp. “With the salve. Curvo told me you play quite rough when that _nér_ is involved.”

Maitimo nodded, and made a mental note to give Curvo another thrashing tomorrow, to match the one he already had. “Yes, Atar.”

“You hear me? Come _right_ back.” Fëanáro paused, then added, “You don’t have to marry her, Nelyo. If you have a better match in mind, I’m listening.”

He had never quite been quick enough for his father.

Maitimo’s hand did not tighten on the scroll. He repressed the urge, and gave his father a bow of his head. “I will come right back,” he said through numb lips.

Ataliel was asleep, her father informed him, but would surely receive the message with enthusiasm upon her awakening. Maitimo politely declined the offer to stay and have tea. There would be plenty of time to speak with Prince Silárion in the future, if his father’s plans held.

The Healer clucked disapprovingly at his knuckles, but he was High Prince, and she gave him the salve. Mechanically, he turned back to his father’s quarters.

Findekáno was there.

He wore a long sleeping shirt under a light robe, his feet were bare, and he was leaning against the wall outside the entrance to Fëanáro’s wing of the palace. At Maitimo’s approach, his head snapped up, and he smiled. “Good evening, cousin,” he said, soft enough not to be overheard, but every syllable carried to Maitimo’s sensitive ears.

He swallowed. It was late now. He had promised to come right back. Findekáno should be upset with him, for not showing up after he’d said he would. “Good evening. I...think there may be some members of my family still awake, or I would invite you inside for tea and stories.”

“I did not come for tea and stories,” Findekáno said simply, and strode to him, taking his hand again. “Do you feel it?” he asked, and his voice was little more than a whisper, his hand warm, skin supple and giving under the pressure of Maitimo’s fingertips. “Do you burn when you see me, like I do for you?”

Maitimo swallowed, his fingers tightening on Findekáno’s. “What changed?” he whispered. “For me...it has always been thus.”

Findekáno grinned, unrepentant. “I grow impatient,” he admitted. “When I was younger, I thought I would wait for you to come to me. You are the High Prince, it is your right. But...I am finding I am not so patient as all that. I think I know your heart. Will you say it?”

“Finno--“ Maitimo’s heart thudded against his ribs. What could he say? Could he refuse, seeing Findekáno right in front of him, holding his hand? Could he agree, knowing full well his father’s temper?

(It was very rarely directed at him. Maitimo was careful to keep it thus.)

On his way back from Ataliel’s father’s quarters, the hand that had carried the missive had felt heavy. Now in Findekáno’s, it felt curiously light, hardly attached to his body. “And...if I feel it, too?”

Findekáno beamed at him, as if he had never had reason to doubt. “Then perhaps we _should_ go in and wake your family,” he suggested. “And tell them that we’ve decided to plight our troth.”

As if Maitimo’s father was anything like Ñolofinwë.

As if he were someone you could just _tell_ things to.

As if Maitimo were allowed to disappoint him.

The door to Fëanáro’s chambers opened, and Maitimo jerked back his hand as if he’d been burned. His heart sank, turning to lead as he spotted his brother, Macalaurë, whose gaze landed on the two of them, eyes going wide.

“Wait here,” Maitimo muttered, and took three long strides, grabbing his brother by the collar, a finger to his lips as he carefully shut the door. Macalaurë wasn’t much shorter than he himself, but he was slighter, and easy to hold in place. “Káno,” Maitimo said, in a low, pleasant voice, as if he weren’t holding his brother against the wall essentially by his throat. “Out for a walk?”

Macalaurë’s eyes were as wide as saucers, and he nodded, rather enthusiastically. “Just a walk,” he agreed. “A walk, to find some material for my new song.”

Maitimo searched his brother’s eyes. Was he lying? Was he going to tell their father what he’d seen? Was he here to spy?

Macalaurë looked up, and was far more frightened than Maitimo thought made sense. “Please,” he whispered, and gripped Maitimo’s tunic. “Don’t tell him.”

Maitimo looked down, and understood. There was a lovely comb in his brother’s hand, finely wrought (though not so finely that Macalaurë himself could not have made it), covered in tiny yellow flowers.

All at once, he felt sick. He nodded, and stepped back, releasing his brother. “Don’t let Curvo know about her,” he cautioned. “He doesn’t keep his mouth shut around Atar.”

Macalaurë gave him an odd look. “You think he has a choice?”

Maitimo swallowed, and looked back over his shoulder. Findekáno’s smile was gone, replaced by nerves and concern. “Maybe none of us do,” he said quietly, and turned away from his cousin, walking back into his father’s chambers and closing the door behind him.


End file.
